Realistic

I give to you the latest snippet in the Reincarnated (click the link for previous entries) story in eleventy-one words...

‘Umm, okay…’ Charlotte replied skeptically.

‘What?!’ Olivia snapped.

Charlotte shrunk back into her chair. ‘I don’t know. I was just… It seems… Are you being realistic?’

Olivia backed off. ‘I don’t know. But I can’t stay here. I can’t take another ten years of this.’

Charlotte remained quiet, thoughtful.

‘Oh my God! It’s a freaking worldwide phenomenon. And my bitch of a mother won’t even acknowledge it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘No idea.’

Charlotte stared past her, thinking.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘Hmm… Do you still want to find your kids?’ she asked.

‘I guess. Why?’

‘I may know someone who can help.’

‘Who?’

Forbidden

I give to you the latest snippet picking up from Olivia in eleventy-one words...

(See Reincarnated for other posts in the series.)

‘What were you talking about?’ Olivia’s mother interrogated.

‘Nothing important,’ Olivia answered airily.

‘It sounded important.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Nothing about reincarnation?’

‘That’s a forbidden topic, mother,’ her words dripped with sarcasm.

‘Hasn’t stopped you in the past.’

‘Well, I guess I’ve learned my lesson.’

‘I don’t appreciate your tone.’

‘Right back atcha, mother.’

‘So… you won’t be going to Charlotte’s tonight.’

Olivia forgot her current self momentarily, ‘I’m a grown-ass woman, bitch.’

Her mother smirked. ‘No, you’re not.’ At that, she returned to the house.

‘Wow,’ Charlotte exclaimed, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Perfect,’ she answered through gritted teeth.

‘Really?’

‘I’m going to find them.’

‘What? Who?’

‘I’m going to find my kids.’

Olivia

I give to you the latest snippet picking up from The Reincarnated in eleventy-one words...

(See Reincarnated for other posts in the series.)

A precocious eight-year-old took the first leap of faith. Dissected and haphazardly reconstructed with interwoven threads of myriad anecdotes, research might reveal the true narrative, but it wouldn’t compete with the titillating tall tale.

It begins in a Connecticut town on a blistering August day. Eleven-year-old Olivia and her best friend, Charlotte, were sunning themselves on the patio. Olivia whispered, ‘Do you remember anything from before?’

‘Mostly just shadows, feelings.’

‘I remember.’ Olivia spoke earnestly. ‘I died young, had two boys; I can see their faces. But my “parents” forbid me to talk about it.’

Olivia’s mother walked in on queue. ‘Hi Charlotte,’ she said as she eyed her daughter knowingly.

Wheel of Fortune

I give to you a memory in eleventy-one words...

On weekday evenings, my grandparents watched Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Obvious questions caused them to critique contestants with gently inconsolable superiority whilst the more challenging trivia relegated them to docility.

Only sporting events disrupted this nightly ritual. Then, Grandpa – and often my jokester uncle – raucously rooted for their team whilst Grandma watched television in the bedroom.

On one of those exceptional nights, Grandma inadvertently uttered a legendary line in the annals of Murray history. As my uncle exited the bathroom, Grandma squawked, ‘You shoulda took a P’ at the ignorant Wheel of Fortune contestant. Without missing a beat, my uncle retorted, ‘I just did!’

Happy Birthday, Grandma. I miss you.

Perception and Intention

 I  give to you a reflection in eleventy-one words...

What do you perceive?

What do you intend?

What’s your story?

I mark my life with questions. These interrogations have, at times, persisted for years. What is my greatest fear? What do I want? What are my principles? The point has not been so much to answer them as to become comfortable with them.

What do I perceive?

What do I intend?

What’s my story?

I’ve no answer, yet. That said, I’ve recognized a relationship I’ve not intimately explored, namely the one between perception and intention. Perception is interpersonal reality; intention is intrapersonal reality. Perception swaddles intention; intention inspires perception.

What do we perceive?

What do we intend?

What’s our story?

Eyes

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

A monk - bald, bespectacled, and garbed in black, flowing robes – enters. His face contracts to keep his coke-bottle glasses adrift upon his aquiline nose. He navigates the sea of cross-legged students with remarkably superb agility. His magnified eyes find a small patch in front of me. He executes his dual bows and crackles his body – with his back to me - onto the buckwheat cushion.

His eyes meet mine. Not the ones encased by thick, brown plastic frames, but rather those tattooed on the back of his head. Pale, faded, and droopy, they peer out lazily atop a zig-zagging carrot-shaped beak. I stare. Dismayed. Mesmerized. Until the left eye winks…

The Reincarnated

I give to you the continuing saga that began with Husband and Wife and continued with Avalanche in eleventy-one words...

(See Reincarnated for other posts in the series.)

After the initial shock, renowned scientists and religious leaders of every ilk offered their myriad contradictory thoughts. A deity’s work? Or the next step in our evolution? It seemed an answer to an ancient quandary; and yet the phenomenon was as – if not more – mysterious.

Whilst academics bloviated, communities reacted. Some in East Asia thought the children holy. Others in the Middle East and Africa shunned them. The majority of families fell somewhere between, loving their children in theory but treating their childrens’ ‘gift’ as a handicap.

An Australian government official happened upon the moniker – albeit not entirely appropriate by traditional standards – that would define the generation. They became the reincarnated.